Martha and Mrs Goodwin left the milliner’s in high spirits, remarking on how incredibly warm and gracious the people of Ballinakelly were. ‘That lady must have married a foreign count,’ said Mrs Goodwin as they walked up the street towards the church. ‘She was very elegant, wasn’t she? Did you notice the diamonds on her ears? They were the size of marigolds!’
Martha laughed. ‘I didn’t notice the diamonds, Goodwin. Is a countess like royalty?’
‘Not a foreign one, my dear. They are two a penny.’
‘Oh,’ said Martha, disappointed.
‘She said she grew up here in Ballinakelly and her Irish accent is very strong in spite of the years lived in America. I’ll bet she wasn’t a lady when she met him. If you ask me the Virgin brought her good luck in marrying a count.’
They reached the Protestant church of St Patrick just after eleven. As they walked up the path towards the big doors Mrs Goodwin quickened her pace, and not because it had started to drizzle lightly but because, there, standing near the entrance, was Reverend Maddox, carrying a cardboard box of prayer books. He feigned surprise at seeing her but Martha sensed their meeting had been pre-arranged. His round face glowed the colour of cranberry jam and the string of exclamations he ejected about coincidences was much too theatrical to be spontaneous. He had planned his reaction and was delivering it badly. Martha, keen not to be a spare wheel in what was clearly the rekindling of an old romance, made her excuses and left them alone, telling Mrs Goodwin that she would meet her back at the inn at one for lunch. She then set off down the road to explore the town. Glancing above her she saw that not far away the clouds were thinning and patches of blue were beginning to show.
Martha wandered up the street, taking pleasure from her solitude. She enjoyed the old-fashioned sight of a horse pulling a cart full of sacks and a couple of lads in caps and jackets weaving up the middle of the road on bicycles. Ballinakelly was quiet and sleepy and seemingly from a bygone age. She wondered what it had looked like when her mother was a child. But having thought her roots were here she now realized that she didn’t belong in Ballinakelly after all. The feeling of coming home had also been an illusion as unreal as the tearful reunion with her mother that she had so often repeated in her mind. For all she knew her mother had come from the other end of the country. She might not have even come from Ireland at all. Her heart grew heavy and her eyes ceased to gaze about her in wonder but dropped disconsolately to the pavement.
After a while she looked up and noticed that she was standing in front of the Catholic church of All Saints. It was built of grey stone with a needle spire soaring up towards Heaven and it seemed to loom out of the drizzle like a beacon of solace. Drawn by the golden lights that shone through the stained-glass windows and the certainty of somehow finding comfort there, Martha wandered in. The Tobins, her mother Pam’s family, were Catholic but Martha had been brought up in her father’s faith, which was Presbyterian. However, she didn’t feel it improper to venture inside to have a look. God was God, after all, she thought, whichever house one chose to find Him in.
All Saints was a small church with rows of wooden pews, white walls and statues of the Virgin and saints positioned in the corners to inspire the parishioners with their fine examples. At the end of the aisle the altar sat in a pool of soft light that streamed in misty beams through the colourful arched window above. Up a small flight of stairs was a pulpit and flickering on tall wooden stands were giant candles. Martha wasn’t alone. A few people were kneeling in the pews in quiet contemplation, a little old lady in a long black dress and shawl was lighting votive candles at a shrine which glowed with tiny flames while a tall man with dark black curls was talking in a low voice to the priest. The place smelt of incense and candle wax and was so warm that Martha thought she’d sit in one of the pews and enjoy the peace for a while.
The priest did not seem to mind. Martha saw him glance in her direction and thought he must recognize her need for solitude. She let her thoughts meander back to JP. He’d be home tomorrow, she hoped. She looked forward to sharing her troubles with him. As an illegitimate child himself he would understand, she knew. If she never found her mother at least she’d found JP.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the tall, curly-haired man and the old woman who were now walking slowly down the aisle in her direction. Martha watched them absent-mindedly. The woman was as fragile as a bird; beside her the man looked like a giant with his broad shoulders and powerful presence. Then he looked at her. For a moment Martha caught his eye but she quickly looked away. Then the old woman spoke. ‘Bridie?’ she said. Martha ignored her. ‘Bridie?’ she said again, this time with more insistence. The man bent down and mumbled something into her ear and the old woman gasped. ‘God save us, Michael,’ she said. ‘I thought that was Bridie twenty years ago.’ Martha lifted her gaze in time to catch the old woman’s wizened face staring at her in bewilderment, as if she were a ghost. Then they were gone and Martha was alone and the priest left her to her meditation.
At last the day of JP’s arrival dawned. An invitation was delivered via Mrs O’Sullivan at breakfast and Martha and Mrs Goodwin took a cab to the Hunting Lodge in great excitement directly after. The sun shone, the sea glistened, the little boats bobbed on the water like a flock of gulls and everything in the world seemed beautiful to both Martha and Mrs Goodwin. They were met by the butler who showed them into the drawing room where Lord Deverill and Grace Rowan-Hampton were waiting for them. However, it wasn’t the anxious expressions on their faces that grabbed Martha’s attention but the portrait hanging above the fireplace. It hadn’t been there the other evening, but it was there now and Martha recognized the person in it at once. She stood in front of it and felt a strange dizziness come over her. But before she could work out why she knew the woman with red hair and pale grey eyes her attention was diverted by Kitty who was now walking in with JP.
When JP saw Martha his features, which had been taut with annoyance ever since Kitty had informed him that he couldn’t see Martha until they had talked, all together, up at the Hunting Lodge, now softened and he took her hands and kissed her blushing cheek. There was nothing anyone could say, he thought, that would prevent him from marrying her. Nothing. He remembered the wish he had made on Ha’penny Bridge and knew that not even the disapproval of his family would discourage him to follow his heart. He had made a wish and his wish had been granted for he could see that the tenderness in her eyes was equal to his.
‘Please sit down, JP,’ said his father and his apprehension made his voice sound gruffer than he intended. JP was startled and his features hardened again with irritation. He greeted Mrs Goodwin and Grace then went and sat on the club fender so that Martha and her chaperone could have the sofa to themselves. He wondered why this conversation had to involve Grace. Surely Kitty or his father could have had a quiet word? Kitty sat beside Grace on the sofa opposite and Bertie sank into the armchair with a groan. ‘We have something we need to tell you,’ he began. The air in the room was oppressive and Martha was beginning to sweat. Through her mind raced the reasons why she might not have come up to scratch. Perhaps they thought she was Catholic, maybe they didn’t approve of Americans . . . ‘Grace?’ said Bertie and all eyes turned to Lady Rowan-Hampton.
‘I don’t know whether you are aware, Martha, but JP’s mother died in childbirth,’ Grace began.
JP’s face flushed. ‘What does that have to do with . . . ?’ he interrupted crossly.
Bertie put up his hand. ‘Let her speak, goddamn it. It’s important.’ Again, his anguish gave his tone a sharp edge which took even him by surprise.
Grace continued gravely. ‘JP was born in a convent in Dublin in January 1922 . . .’ Now it was Martha’s turn to flush. She glanced at Mrs Goodwin who shot her a startled look. ‘His mother was a housemaid for Lord Deverill. What no one realized until a couple of days ago when Martha paid me a visit was that the young woman gave birth not to one child but to two. Twins.’ Martha stared at JP an
d her flush drained away with her hope, leaving her face as pale as death. JP blinked back at her in astonishment, a terrible disappointment seizing him by the throat. Of all the reasons two people might not be permitted to be together he had never imagined this. ‘The nuns put my name on the birth certificate, knowing that an aristocratic mother would fetch a higher price,’ Grace continued. ‘But I am not your mother, Martha. I can tell you now that your mother was a sweet, gentle country girl called Mary O’Connor and it is a great pity that neither you nor JP ever knew her. But Lord Deverill is your father and you are siblings. I’m sorry that you cannot be together in the way you wish, but you came into the world together, it is a blessing that Fate has reunited you.’ JP shook his head and clenched his hands and his face reddened as he tried very hard to stem his tears.
Martha stared at Lord Deverill, her father. She had only ever considered her mother, but here she was in the presence of the man who had fathered her, and she was overcome. There was to be no tearful embrace, no triumphant end to a lifelong search, no satisfactory conclusion. Lord Deverill gazed at her and she gazed at him and there was no spark of recognition, just a hollow and aching bewilderment. How disappointed he must be to discover that he has another illegitimate child, Martha thought – as disappointed as she was for having found, in the place of a loving mother, a confused and begrudging father.
Martha’s attention was drawn to the portrait and it was as if the lady depicted in paint was not a picture at all but a real person, gazing down on her with real eyes. She stared at it as a memory resurfaced like a bubble that has been trapped for years beneath a rock at the bottom of the sea. It rose slowly into her consciousness then popped into her mind with startling clarity. She had seen the lady before. She had seen her many times and she had loved her. ‘That’s Adeline,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘My grandmother.’ And her eyes stung with tears.
‘You know Adeline?’ said Bertie, astonished. He too turned his gaze to the painting. Adeline gazed back and smiled sadly. Yes, Martha, I have always been beside you even when you lost your ability to see me. I never left you and I will never leave you. And Martha heard her words in a whisper that might have been the sound of the wind outside had they not been articulated so clearly.
‘She’s always been with me,’ Martha replied, the portrait blurring now as she gave into her disillusionment.
Kitty rushed over and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close. ‘You really are my sister,’ she said, feeling the girl stiffen in her embrace. ‘You and I have inherited the gift of second sight from Adeline. I’m sorry you haven’t found your mother, my darling, but you have found us and we’re your family too.’ Kitty’s eyes stung with tears, not for herself, but for JP and the half-sister she had just discovered.
JP stood up. ‘Please can you all leave us,’ he said, looking at each in turn. ‘I want to have a moment alone with Martha.’ With heavy hearts Bertie, Kitty, Grace and Mrs Goodwin left the room to reconvene in the library where they shared their unhappiness in hushed voices over large glasses of whiskey.
Martha and JP looked at each other, not knowing what to say. They knew they loved each other but neither had imagined that their attraction was fuelled by a deep unconscious recognition. By a magnetic pull that had started seventeen years before, in the womb. How could they express the devastation in their hearts while at the same time acknowledge the miracle of their reunion? As the full weight of Grace’s revelation fell upon them they came together in a desperate embrace.
‘We’re leaving Ireland,’ said Martha when she and Mrs Goodwin climbed once again into the cab. ‘I can’t stay here a moment longer. I need time to think. I need space to gather my thoughts. I have just suffered the greatest disappointment of my life and I don’t know what to do with myself. I should never have come. Life was better in ignorance. I should have appreciated the family I had, not longed for a fantasy. I have been a fool, Goodwin.’
Mrs Goodwin drew Martha to her and rested her cheek against her hair. ‘I don’t know how to comfort you,’ she said helplessly.
‘Crying over my poor dead mother is simply crying over a lost dream, but JP was real. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from that loss, Goodwin. I don’t know how I’m going to go on.’ Her voice broke. ‘I don’t think I can. The world has changed. It was beautiful. Now it’s hard and unfriendly and I’m frightened to be in it.’
They reached the inn. It seemed surreal that only a couple of hours before they had left it in such a state of excitement. They pushed open the door and walked into the hall.
There, sitting in a chair, was Larry Wallace.
He stood up when he saw his daughter and a cloud of uncertainty swept across his face, but Martha ran to him and threw herself against him. ‘Oh Daddy!’ she sobbed. ‘You’re here!’ He took her into his arms and glanced at Mrs Goodwin over her head. The old woman’s miserable face told him that something dreadful had happened.
‘Martha!’ he soothed, stroking her hair. ‘It’s okay, I’m here now. Everything’s going to be all right.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Professor Partridge and a little detective work. It wasn’t very difficult.’
‘You came all the way from America for me?’
He squeezed her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. ‘You’re my girl, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ she sniffed. ‘I am your girl. Take me home,’ she said.
Larry Wallace closed his eyes and sighed deeply. ‘That’s what I was hoping you’d say.’
Martha was not sorry to leave Ballinakelly. She wanted to erase it from her experience. She wanted things to return to the way they were, before she had loved so deeply and lost so terribly. But Mrs Goodwin had made up her mind. She was not going anywhere.
The old nanny took Martha’s hands and told her that even though their adventure had come to a devastating end she wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world. ‘But my place is here, in Ballinakelly, with John,’ she said. ‘I have been given a second chance, my dear Martha, and I don’t want to miss it.’
‘Then you mustn’t,’ Martha replied. ‘He’s lucky to have found you again. At least one of us is happy. Thank you, Goodwin—’
‘Don’t say it,’ Mrs Goodwin interrupted swiftly. ‘We’re beyond thank-yous. Go now before I start to cry too . . .’
Just as Martha was about to climb into the cab Mrs O’Sullivan hurried out, carrying a large hat box. ‘This came for you this morning, Miss Wallace,’ she said. Martha knew immediately what it was but she couldn’t imagine why anyone would gift it to her. Overwhelmed, she opened the little white envelope and read the note. It said, simply: Dear Miss Wallace. It was made for you. My best wishes, Countess di Marcantonio. Why would a lady she’d only just met buy her a hat?
Then Martha was struck with an idea. ‘There’s something we have to see before we leave,’ she said to her father as the cabbie put the hat box in the cab. ‘It will only take a minute.’
Larry and Martha Wallace stood at the foot of the hill and looked up at the statue of the Virgin, who seemed to watch them serenely, if a little curiously, from her place in the grass. She wasn’t as tall as Martha had imagined, only about four feet, dressed in a white gown with a blue cloak draped over her narrow shoulders. Her pale face was shiny and inclining slightly, as if she was ready to listen to the problems of the world with compassion and understanding. Larry didn’t know why his daughter wanted to see the statue, but everything about his daughter had baffled him since he had read the note she had left in the hall and the subsequent letter she had written from London. It hadn’t been hard to find her. The problem was trying to work out whether she’d want to be found. As it turned out, much to his relief, she did.
But he stood beside her now, patiently, wondering what she was waiting for.
And then the statue moved. Martha caught her breath. Larry blinked. ‘Did that thing sway?’ he asked. Martha nodded, afraid to speak unless she ruined it. It swayed
again, indisputably so, from side to side. ‘Is someone up there playing a prank?’ Larry asked, wandering further up the road so that he could see behind it. But Martha knew. It wasn’t a prank; it was the Virgin. She didn’t know how and she didn’t know when, but Martha was certain that, in the end, everything would turn out all right.
Maggie O’Leary
Ballinakelly, 1662
Maggie first laid eyes on Lord Deverill on a drizzly morning in early spring, when, accompanied by an entourage of about fifteen men, he entered the small hamlet of Ballinakelly. He was mounted on a majestic chestnut horse, dressed finely in a crimson cloak, a wide-brimmed hat with an extravagant plume, high leather boots and shining spurs. His hair was a rich brown and curled in fashionable waves onto his broad and confident shoulders. But Maggie didn’t notice how handsome he was with his straight nose and pale grey eyes. Blinded by anger she stepped into the lane.
This man had stolen her family’s land. Land the O’Learys had owned for generations. He had knocked down their home and built a castle there, seizing their magnificent view of the ocean and all the memories contained within it. High grey walls now soared towards the sky where once the smoke from their modest chimney had gently wafted. Towers and turrets formed powerful defences to protect this ennobled soldier from his enemies where, before, their small farmhouse had welcomed anyone who chose to stop by on their way up the coast. This castle was an affront to the people of Ballinakelly, an affront to the O’Learys – what was left of them – and a personal affront to Maggie, who was now responsible for her sister and her grandmother who had gone mad with despair in the ramshackle cabin Maggie had built in the woods.
There he sat, the newly appointed Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly, speaking English which Maggie did not understand. His voice had to compete with the wind that swept up the main street in insolent gusts as if it too wanted to see the back of him. Maggie stepped into the road, her Bandon cloak trailing in the mud at her feet. Lord Deverill stopped talking and watched her with interest. A man beside him raised his voice and placed his hand on the sword at his hip, but Lord Deverill lifted his glove to silence him and Maggie lowered her hood. She shook her head and her long dark locks of tangled hair fell about her face and over her shoulders in thick, wild waves. Her anger did not, however, blind her to the expression of wonder on his face. She stared at him with wide green eyes and spoke the curse that seemed not to come from her but through her from some supernatural force beyond her control. ‘Is mise Peig Ni Laoghaire. A Tiarna Deverill, dhein tú éagóir orm agus ar mo shliocht trín ár dtalamh a thógáil agus ár spiorad a bhriseadh. Go dtí go gceartaíonn tú na h-éagóracha siúd, cuirim malacht ort féin agus d-oidhrí, I dtreo is go mbí sibh gan suaimhneas síoraí I ndomhan na n-anmharbh.’ As she spoke her voice took on a mellifluous tone like the hiss of an enchanted snake and she saw, to her delight, that Lord Deverill was mesmerized by it. When she was finished Lord Deverill turned to one of his men and Maggie assumed that he was demanding the translation for the man looked reluctant and his face was grey with fear, but he finally replied in a loud and quivering voice for the whole party to hear. ‘Lord Deverill,’ said the man and a small smile crept across Maggie’s lips as she waited to see Lord Deverill’s reaction. ‘You have wronged me and my descendants by taking our land and breaking our spirits. Until you right those wrongs I curse you and your heirs to an eternity of unrest and to the world of the undead.’ The men reached for their swords but Lord Deverill seemed to make light of those dark words. When he turned his face away Maggie lifted her skirts and with the agility of a young deer disappeared into the cluster of thatched hovels.
The Last Secret of the Deverills Page 16